


the reason i hold on

by anarcheologist (sensalito)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: DID I MENTION LOVE, Derek is a Softie, Falling In Love, First Kiss, I love Derek Hale, Love, M/M, Remix Redux, Sappy, Sleepiness, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:28:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4155354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensalito/pseuds/anarcheologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love has saved worst things than you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the reason i hold on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angelgazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelgazing/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Heart Repeating, Beating](https://archiveofourown.org/works/508692) by [angelgazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelgazing/pseuds/angelgazing). 



> I hope the original author enjoy my remixed version, though I must say I have kept a good part of the original story because it was so beautiful, I only wanted to enhance it instead of changing it too much. I greatly encourage anyone reading this story to go and read the original one as well if you haven't already. It's beautiful and I loved it, which is why I choose it for this challenge.  
> Title from Rihanna ft. Mikky Ekko - Stay  
> Thank you to the lovely [NeoLadyApollonia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/neoladyapollonia/pseuds/neoladyapollonia) for the beta-ing, I love you my dear.

Derek wakes slowly for the first time in a long while. He usually comes back to consciousness abruptly, heart beating fast and hard from a nightmare or a noise he heard in his sleep. Sometimes it’s from phantom smoke filling his nose. Today, though, his body and head feel heavy with sleep, still. He could very well drift back if he wanted, which is unusual enough it makes him frown and cling to wakefulness to make sure everything is as it should. He remembers then.

He’s spent all night long at the Stilinskis’, healing, hidden in Stiles’ room. Stiles had insisted Derek stay in his bed as he was injured and terribly needed the comfort of a real bed to rest and heal. Beside the Sheriff’s, it was the only bed in the house, and the couch was old and well worned; it would have been quite a fit to not only make the old thing support his body but also to get sleep out of it. A proper night sleep could go a long way when it came to healing, admittedly, even for werewolves, and he had been grateful to be offered the opportunity to nurse his wounds somewhere not only comfortable but familiar as well. Safe, even.

He opens his eyes to see Stiles trying to get ready for school in the dark, the curtains pulled tight against the early morning sun. Derek feels a pang of fondness for the boy, at the thought of the teenager preferring to fumble in the dark instead of switching some light on, just so as not to wake Derek. The only sounds in the room are the whispers of fabric as he pulls off one shirt for the next and the slight hitch in Derek's breathing that Stiles catches - has to catch, if the way he tenses briefly before relaxing is any indication - and doesn’t acknowledge, as it is. Derek has spent many years convincing himself that _want_ was a problem; he’d wanted things, he’d wanted someone, he’d wanted to feel and it had led to him losing his family and home. Wanting is a weakness and having isn't something he deserves anyway.

But in this instant it's so easy to forget, the muted light of Stiles' bedroom painting them in soft hues, making everything (them, especially) look fragile. Derek's blissed out from the last dredges of sleep and the absence of pain, from the feeling of safety he gets in this home (and it reminds him so much of his own, lost forever, that it hurts).

Stiles' back is in front of him, dotted with freckles like a map of possibilities, of places he's never dared to go, and his mouth is dry suddenly, with the way _want_ trips up his heart (implacable, unstoppable) the same way that fear always manages to do. The arrythmic staccato of it against his ribcage is making him short of breath and he wishes he was strong enough to do something, right then and there, to reach out maybe, fingertips skimming the pale skin bared to his view.

His hands, from the tips of his fingers to his wrists, itch to touch Stiles, but that isn't a new sensation. Derek can never take his eyes off of him, not in any kind of light or place, and certainly not now, not like this. The darkness, the quiet, the soft movements Stiles makes as he gets ready for another day; Derek can’t help but think _I wasn't prepared for you. I have never known anyone or anything more terrifying. Please, don’t leave me._

But the fist around his heart, that cruel grip on his lungs, the punch in the gut he feels every time he sees Stiles - it isn't fear, for once; it isn't even desire. It isn't that bone-deep knowledge that he shouldn't. That he can't. That he doesn’t deserve this. It’s not unpleasant, yet it almost hurts. It’s simply like standing on the edge of a cliff, overseeing a beautiful sea, and knowing you’re about to free fall but that you’re not going to die; on the contrary, you’re going to _live_. Derek knows survival well, but life? Life is... It’s amazing and scary and hopeful and fragile all at once. Derek begged for his life before, to people playing at being God, toying with death like it's a sport. But he'd never quite meant it the way he would if he did it now.

It all settles over him like a blanket, warm like mornings when he was younger. It reminds him of pretending to be asleep to listen to the house wake up around him. Laughter in the kitchen, affectionate conversation, familiar heartbeats and the smell of breakfast. Sneaking in his parents’ room and curling up in their bed as they got ready for the day. He remembers quiet, rainy mornings and the contentment of knowing he was cared for, that those you love are there, warm and happy and safe. He should get away, try to run, escape this thing he’s not sure he can bear… But he's settled into pillows that smell of Stiles, and it feels like the first place in too long where he could maybe belong. It’s scary but he’s not afraid. He’s spent too much time being afraid in his life, he doesn’t want to give up the few good things given to him. It would be foolish. You don't turn your back on what little things you earn for yourself. 

Stiles pulls on a cleanish shirt, his scent already clinging to the threads of it, like he wore it half a day then changed and now he’s using it again. The fabric hides the dimples in his back, like that could ever discourage Derek from wanting to taste them, and Derek breathes out. It’s going to Derek's head so easily; he's a lightweight for it. He wants to laugh, almost, if laughing wouldn't jostle too many places that are still healing. If it wouldn't disturb the morning and this moment of peace they’re having. If his heart wasn't doing this strange dance in his chest that made it hurt, just a little.

It’s intimate, or at least, it could be. Derek reaches out, hooks his fingers around Stiles' wrist just to catch his pulse against his fingertips. Just to feel. To remind himself of life. His tongue is heavy, clumsy, and Stiles' skin is as warm as the feeling inside of him when Derek says, "thank you," soft, careful not to break whatever they’re sharing.

Stiles smiles and presses his fingertips to Derek's forehead gently, like Derek is something cherished. Derek’s eyes prickle - there's so much he needs to say, suddenly, but the words don't come because they never do, and his mouth trembles with the way he yearns to just tell him. A soft smile is gracing Stiles’ features, like he’s keeping a secret he doesn't want to share quite yet; he’s bathed in the barely there light from the window and his heartbeat is soothing in its regularity. He looks the opposite of what Derek feels: devastated almost, breaking under the weight of _them_.

Derek exhales, like he can push out everything, because letting go is easy- well, no it’s not, but it’s easier than trying and failing to hold on, for sure.

(It happened before, too often if he's being honest, needing nothing more than keeping this one thing and have it escape his grip because you can't capture smoke, can you? You can't hold onto ghosts and memories are fickles, they run away from you before you realize it.)

Derek knows, though, in this moment, that he’s not going to let go. He can’t. He'll do whatever not to. He’s gonna be weak and want, and he thinks with a conviction he hasn’t felt before that he’s earned it. He owes it to himself to try and have this one good thing- this one perfect thing for himself. _Love has saved worst things than you_ , he's been told. He'd never believed before. How could it save him when the idea of it was his downfall first? But-

"Go back to sleep," Stiles tells him. His fingertips run on Derek's cheek, brush his mouth, he can feel them on his throat, light as a butterfly, to finish their course on his shoulder. Stiles slides his fingers on Derek's arm, heavier now, traces all the places that were broken open the night before. "I'll see you later," Stiles says, more promise than goodbye, and Derek nods, though he can’t make himself close his eyes. Stiles seems to feel it, that Derek isn’t going to go back to sleep because there’s something missing. Or maybe something too present. He hesitates for a second, searching Derek’s eyes, before slowly bending over the short distance between them and, on an exhale, brings their lips together for a dry taste of what could be if they had the time right now. As Stiles straightens back up, he sweetly brushes his nose against Derek’s and presses a sweet kiss against his brow. Derek closes his eyes, then, and lets himself drift back off to dream of early mornings and the heady taste of Stiles, the taste of possibilities.


End file.
